Christmas & Other Poems
Birth of a feeling
And the dogs groan …
to make them satiate and sedate
a night was made
Intercourses, cold – to be performed
crossing the greedy voyeurs
of the neighbor
letters – handicapped
move along the ninth-month-hiatus –
alphabets born – chaotic …
afternoon – on the eight years birthday
crows, cats, men – resting
parallel to the double-barreled gun
nights howl – dead mice – smell
of ancient lead – owls
coming along with fragrance of death
of preys …
the waited branches of pipul –
enters through the very blood
of the soul …
and, all the logics loose dead
a feeling born …
Going towards infinity ….
cold hands caressing
in the disguise of lve – stereotyped..
and I couldn’t forget
couldn’t see – the broken dreams
amidst the domestic jihads …
as if a late young night – looming –
with mother waiting in the doorside –
I speed up
and one day,
I met the infinity – crossing
the rivers, and the concretes ….
he touched with a Midas-hand –
he saw with a sudden paddy land –
turning lustrous in a starry night …
he took me ….
The grasshoppers stand still – as still
As the gang of boys lamenting for the lst
cricket ball – the game stops
the woman reads – looses hair
With wet comb and mayfly – someone
touched them, or the twilight-smell –
still laden softly beside the lips –
a poet lies dead in the dark grass
Christmas is yet to come this year …
Though winters looms – as the insects
creep along the moist wall.
we walk tiptoe – the city, sans pride –
sans poplar, aspen ….
still a douglas far born timely as the smile of
La Giaconda – lipside – as the houses of
Bo Barrack dances in spree – carols, chants
throughout the night …
oh! Where are our old days
where are our grandmothers
yarning fables in the sunny memory lane ..
still, the mighty assemblages – little colours
grabbing the hand of their mothers – with
altered class syllabus – and, hey, Mary Antonoitte
see – they are eating cakes,
dear lady, they are eating cakes ….
with emaciated lifelines of
poor Calcutta – the broken Lady Magdalane –
night creeps, hanging shocks of
untold gifts – looming large in the next morning
with relics of Saint Nicolas …
and finally the devil calms – the night
pacifies with gins, champagnes – with
hardened nails in greedy gothics –
and I –
kiss you madly – make love – in a pose
of our mighty country –
let you be identified – my mother, my beloved
the witness of my last supper ….
how trifle it seems for
a 30 pieces of silver ….
We, who cannot fly kite, have our own skies …
or a rocky forest – with a bird looking futile
for her lost offsprings – with a cry of a hawk
in the soul …
with an unidentified moon
– an evening star – the very old grandmothers
weaving for the unknown time being …
with a pipul tree – a cursed branch
we, who cannot climb – lying behind, mute ….
With nonchalant neighbors –
lonely ponds having reflections
of the dreary images of ours and
our dead skies ..
We, who cannot swim, lie beside ….
With love, depression, sorrow –
with soundless horizon – mundanity –
and all the futile intercourse
in the unabortive nights – though, in vain…
we, lie behind – sans loving with
our own women
in a festival night ….
…..Have seen you
We, who didn’t see you
who, saw you ..
amidst the very old 41,
amidst the grasping moribund
amidst the looming doubts of shilling hill
creeping through the domestic cracks
of Shovonlal …
amidst the gangraped Nandinis –
the kings of Kolkata celebrating
the Baisakhi spree …
in the meantime, the poet dies, cries
looses in the tug of corpses …
to deny you, is actually,
to reinvent you ..
and, you – as still in my soul,
went into oblivion – we,
singin’ our daily office-roads –
we, who didn’t see you
actually, more and more have seen you …
Translated from original by the poet.
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